


They Switched And The World Tilted

by Pointeshoes_solarpanels_and_zombies



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Confusion, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Romance, Sexual Tension, pushing away
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:38:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2222610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pointeshoes_solarpanels_and_zombies/pseuds/Pointeshoes_solarpanels_and_zombies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dead. They were rotting inside, the home of parasites and bacteria. They had no blood circulation in their bodies, either, and that made them cold. Much like Beth. She had not shed a tear since witnessing her father being decapitated. Nothing ran through her veins. She was stagnant in every way possible. And yet, much like the undead, she moved hungrily with an undying determination to reach a goal. But what goal? What did she have left? Her family was gone, the child she had raised was gone. All she had was this strange, antisocial hick who wouldn't even look at her. </p><p>Beth's strength is tested and Daryl finds himself being the caretaker he never knew he was.<br/>Set after the prison falls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my fellow TWD lovers! So I have began to write a Bethyl fanfic, and I hope you like it! Please let me know if there is anything I need to clarify or just general comments! Happy reading!

Chapter 1

Silence. Everything had been silence for a week since the prison fell. Beth never thought she would miss the rattling noise of daily life: Judith always crying, children asking her for things, growling walkers in the distance. There were nights where her aching head forced her to beg the world for solitude, for a moment alone. Now that was all she had and she hated it. And the ironic thing was that she was with someone. Daryl sat next to her staring blankly into the fire. He had barley spoken to her, at times grumbling, "We'll go this way," or "Gonna take a piss," but nothing more.   
Beth felt a cold, hard shell go around her during that week. Encompassing her with its dull bluntness of her situation, she had begun to think like a walker. Ravenously, relentlessly moving forward, following any other source of life. If she were to get shot in the stomach, so be it. She would keep walking, ignoring the ripping sounds of flesh underneath her shoulders as she clumsily continued forward. Because nothing will stop a walker from perusing food. Its torso could be torn in two, its legs could be cut off, yet it would still struggle its way towards life until one of two things happened: a knife went through its head, or it was able to sink its teeth into another living thing.   
The dead. They were rotting inside, the home of parasites and bacteria. They had no blood circulation in their bodies, either, and that made them cold. Much like Beth. She had not shed a tear since witnessing her father being decapitated. Nothing ran through her veins. She was stagnant in every way possible. And yet, much like the undead, she moved hungrily with an undying determination to reach a goal. But what goal? What did she have left? Her family was gone, the child she had raised was gone. All she had was this strange, antisocial hick who wouldn't even look at her. The thoughts pushed her legs off the ground as she stared intensely into nothing, her surroundings absorbing her mind. Her hand found its way to her hair, and pulled out the small braid she had kept in since the prison fell. Her hand then went to her hip, which touched her attached knife, and moved back down. She wandered into the dark woods without saying a word to Daryl, who did not look up from his glare into the fire.

Daryl opened his eyes to the vibrant greens of the trees above him. He did not remember actually moving himself to be in the position to lie down on the ground last night, yet here he was, his chin pointed towards the sky. He slowly pulled himself up, blinking a few times to adjust his vision. Across from where he sat, he saw Beth's backpack, but no Beth.   
Probably goin' to the bathroom, he assumed, and reached for his water bottle. He drank eagerly, perhaps a little too eagerly, as they would need to start rationing their supplies. Daryl decided to get a jump start on packing everything up. It was important to keep moving, maybe they could get lucky and find some abandoned building in good condition. Or maybe just an area deep within the woods. Anything away from the walkers, and more importantly, away from the people. Daryl's stomach went bitter as he started to think of the events that had occurred just seven days prior to that morning. He swallowed deeply. Whenever he thought about that day, it was like everything else around him went black, leaving just the maliciously distorted figure of the governor in view. He thought of everything he put Daryl and his family through. Terrorizing them, destroying the fence and later the entire prison. Humiliating Maggie. How he took him and his brother into an arena surrounded by walkers. Daryl bit his lip as he thought of Merle, realizing he had let his mind wander into unkempt territory. He had a way of coping with loss in his head. You would think everything would be disorganized; an overwhelmingly hot mess like a bedroom whose floor sagged in the center, causing everything to pool at the bottom. But he had boxes for things taken away. Photographs, some big, some old. Those little wispy things you can make a wish on. Maybe a tooth. He would take the items and put them in the box and stack them on a shelf with neatly written handwriting (in his mind, he had good penmanship), that he would then save for a later moment of rage. All the thoughts and feelings that had collected themselves around Merle's death were left in a pile, glaring at him, a small messy bedroom of their own. He began to breath deeply, hoping his mind would let him forget about it, at least for a moment. Eventually, he began to calm down, and this was when Daryl realized he had had his eyes closed shut and his fists clenched, which he immediately let go slack, and continued to pack everything up.   
About twenty minutes had gone by and Beth still had not returned from wherever she was. Daryl was starting to get a little stressed out, a little impatient. He got up from where he was sitting and headed out for the woods to try and find her.   
He eventually found her tracks and followed them carefully. They were in a strange looping pattern going in different directions, making it appear she had been wandering around, but the small footprints definitely belonged to her. He swallowed an ounce of annoyance at the girl before continuing on. He noticed a sign of struggle in the path he was following, and just ahead was a mangled, but dead, walker. As he continued forward, more and more of them piled up. The more he saw, the faster he moved, until he was running, worried that she had been taken by a herd. Hershel would never forgive him, he thought to himself as he sprinted into a clearing to see the back of a blonde girl standing tensely, looking down at something. In front of her was a stream surrounded by boulders, so that the body of water was deep into the ground, making it quite a jump if she was to enter it. The girl's hair was covered in dried blood, with the rest of her body matching. She was stripped down to her underwear. Daryl did not know what to do. This girl could be many things. This could be a walker. This could be Beth. Or, worst of all, this could be the walker of Beth.   
The body bent its knees, as if to jump, which was when Daryl decided to speak up.   
"Beth?" he said softly. Beth slowly turned around to look at him, her upper body exposed completely now. She looked down at her right hand, which was clutching a bloody knife, and she immediately dropped it in disgust and disbelief. She was shaking, and breathing very hard, confusion in her eyes, letting herself wither away to show a vulnerable and ashamed teenage girl as she glanced to the side. But she did not cry. She stood there, staring at Daryl, giving him full freedom to choose what to do next. It was clear he was incredibly uncomfortable like this, but a gnawing question managed to escape him.   
"Are..are you bit?" he croaked. She grimly shook her head no. She looked to the ground, and there was a silence all around them. Beth did not want to have to do anything. She was very introverted at this moment, and found comfort in her mouth and tongue not moving to respond to any question, no matter how serious.   
Daryl didn't know what to do. He wished he could say something to her to make her feel better, but his mind and lips failed him for assuring words. Any phrases of comfort had expired by now and would leave a sour taste of naive ness if he tried to express them. So instead of saying anything, Daryl attempted another form of comfort. He grabbed a remotely clean handkerchief out of his back pocket and wet it in a small puddle of water that had formed on top of the boulders. He walked up to Beth and sat her down on the rocks, gently wiping away the gore of whatever happened last night. He would not look at her, he decided. He would not observe her appearance, her body, only wash off her arms as a gesture of good will, which he did. Someone closer to Beth may have wet the fabric again and dabbed at her neck, but Daryl remained stationary on the ground, allowing his eyes to squint slightly so as not to see anything he shouldn't, and continued cleaning her arms. Beth did not look at him either, instead she closed her eyes. A soft touch, she thought to herself. She did not know such a thing existed anymore in a cruel world like this one. She didn't remember anything of last night. She only remembered walking into the woods last night and suddenly she was here, covered in blood, and practically naked. What the hell had happened? she thought to herself. It was like she was in a trance or something. Suddenly, Beth felt exposed. And self conscious. She shot her eyes open immediately to meet Daryl's and they stared at each other for a moment, an understanding concocting itself between them. Daryl broke the eye contact and coughed, getting up. Beth followed his lead.  
"You can get the rest uh this off ya on yer own, Imona be over there, keepin watch," he said gruffly, looking into her face. Beth nodded, but as he began to walk away, she did something she had not expected to do. She started to cry. No silent, humble tears, but the intense, disgusting, blubbery mess of an emotionally disturbed child, causing Daryl to turn around. Beth's back had gone concave, with her hands in her face and her body heaving in reaction to what had just hit her. Her body, her life, her family, was food on a table, almost literally, waiting for some blindly hungry and greedy force to take. Perhaps it was a walker, following its primal yet at the same time unnatural instincts to consume other living things, or maybe it was The Governor, killing her father and ruining her home. Beth was entertainment for the world. It could take her and tell her to twist up in a knot or stretch out to the ends of the continent until her ligaments and muscles were no longer able to handle it. And then the world would push some more. The worst part is, Beth couldn't complain. Nature does not care that your feet hurt from walking or your stomach aches from lack of food. Death is for the weak, and she did not want to be one of those people, one of the meek who decompose out of our memories. She just didn't know if she had it in her to avoid that fate.   
The series of realizations were like waves of heat and unforgiving fire threatening to crack her cold shell, and it panicked her.   
Beth was squatting now, her knees ached from the position but she held it anyways, refusing to let go of this moment of weakness she was beginning to cling to. She expected Daryl to start yelling at her, tell her to get the fuck up and stop crying. She heard nothing from him, didn't even hear if he had moved. She remained there weeping. Suddenly, an arm from behind went around her stomach and another underneath her armpit and around her neck. Daryl's head rested next to the side of hers, and he just held her and let her cry out. He gave her that, he had to, after everything she had seen. And maybe he needed to hold someone, after everything he had seen.   
Daryl said nothing, but let himself fall down behind her in order to pull her closer into him. There was no longer an essence of vulnerability between them, at least not right now, despite how exposed Beth was, a little more than Daryl was really comfortable with. Nevertheless, her back was pressed to his torso and his nose was behind her ear, in a desperate attempt for comfort.   
She began to purge it all, from the day everything fell to well into this exact moment. Her losing all her friends, her mother. The fear she and her family had to cope with. The emotionally degenerating feeling that every meal could be her last. And the red. All the red she saw throughout this miserable period of her life. The red that came out of her wrists that day she wanted to take the easy way out. The red as it spurted out of her father's neck. He had such an overwhelmed but solemn look on his face when it happened. He did not get last words. He did not get a goodbye. All he got was to stare straight ahead and tolerate his death. An indescribable feeling hit her when she saw it happen. One she had been taught never to experience. She felt hopelessness. Her father was the most concrete thing in her life. It seemed like he would always be there, radiating a calmness and intelligence not everyone possesses. The sight of her father's death sent her afloat into an abyss of the indefinite, and it petrified her. So she let it out.   
The harder she cried, the harder Daryl hung onto her, wrapping his arms around her tightly. He wanted to whisper into her ear that it would be okay, that it’s okay to let it out, but something made him hold off. He did not know what. So he held the moment in the palm of his hand like a small fire and let it burn until it did not need to anymore.   
Eventually, Beth started to calm down. She had stopped crying and was simply breathing deeply, letting her body recover. Daryl still held onto her. Things seemed still for a moment. Far from perfect, but still. Like when you are very ill in the middle of the night and you manage get yourself to settle down and roll into sleep.  
"You okay?" he asked quietly, rippling the calm.   
"Yeah," she said quietly, with some hesitation. She did not want him to let go of her. It felt so good to be touched by someone else at times, and having Daryl's arms around her made Beth immediately realize how tense she had been, because once he began to hold onto her, she immediately relaxed. It was such a comfort, a thing not very common in this day and age. But she did not want to push it with him. Beth knew Daryl had a temper and could get impatient, and this was already so out of character for him. The limit was here. It must be.   
Daryl's grip on Beth loosened as she stood up, refusing to look him in the eyes. She once again became very aware of the fact that she didn't have a shirt on, and crossed her arms to cover her breasts. She did not notice Daryl looking away as well, into the stream.   
"I..I'm sorry," she resorted to saying with a sniffle.   
"'salright," Daryl said distantly, and with some discomfort. "I'll uh..I'll be over there. You can get dressed." He walked off.   
Beth waited until she could barely hear his footsteps, and began to look for a safe way into the water to rinse off all of the death. She walked a little downstream to where it was more shallow, a place where she also found her clothing, something she had not remembered taking off. She dunked her head under and let air bubbles fly out of her nose. She scrubbed all of the disgusting out of her hair and off her body. It felt good to be in the cool water. All the crying and the lack of sleep had caused Beth to have a headache, and the water soothed her, at least somewhat. As she washed herself she began to remember some of what had happened to lead her to this moment. At first, all she remembered was standing on the rocks, ready to jump. She wasn't even aware of what her body was doing. But now a few more things were coming back. She recalled waking up by the rocks. In her memory it was sweltering. Everything around Beth pulsated feverishly, threatening to burst into puss, covering her with a sticky, slimy substance. She looked down at her body to see blood and little bits of guts everywhere, and Beth realized where she had gotten the previously mentioned image. She saw that she was naked, except for her underwear. God, it was so hot. And she was so thirsty. Her body ached for water, for something cold to quench her temperature. Her heart beat pounded in her skull, drowning out any other sound. She felt a breeze, but it might as well have been a lash of fire; she was convinced her skin was burning from it. She looked forward and saw how the rocks stopped ahead of her, indicating there was some kind of crevice. She got up shakily and approached the edge. She saw it. Saw the water in front of her, beckoning her to come down to it. To get all the nauseating red off of her. She bent her knees, ready to dive into relief. But with the sound of one word, things immediately snapped into a different gear.  
"Beth?" The familiar voice sounded as though it was miles away.  
Suddenly, the air got cooler. She was no longer being called to the water's edge. And she was afraid. Very afraid.   
Beth shivered as she thought of it. She did not want to remember much more. At least not now. So she dunked her head under one more time and got out. She put her clothes on and went to find Daryl. Fuck. Daryl. She didn't know how he was going to look at her when she returned to him. Maybe like a wounded animal. Maybe like a little kid. All Beth knew was there would be no more of what had happened this morning, no more bullshit. It was time to toughen up and get serious about survival, she decided, as she buried her past into the pit of her stomach. 

Daryl decided not to bring up the incident with Beth. He figured if she wanted to talk about it, she would let him know. That was one bravery Beth had that Daryl did not, she wasn't afraid to talk, or ask questions for that matter. At times it could get annoying, for instance back at the prison, when he would be cleaning a squirrel, she would come bobbing up to him, Judith in tow, asking if he knew what all the organs were.   
"This ain't no damn science class," he would reply irritably, but with an air of amusement.   
Beth would react to comments like these with a soft, slightly disappointed smile, looking away.   
But now, Beth was no sweet girl. She was just walking forward, with a stoic determination he had never seen before. She had barely said one word to him when she returned from the stream. Daryl was not used to this sort of energy from Beth, but did not question it, he enjoyed the silent company.   
They had spent the last few nights in the woods, trying their best to get away from anything and everything. For now, they both were pretty content with not encountering a single living, or dead thing. But they had to head to the road soon. Supplies was getting low, and although they could catch their own food, it would be nice if they didn't have to, just this once. Maybe they would even get lucky and find a vehicle. So, with several estimations and the help of a map, they made their way to a nearby highway. It was around mid-day when they reached it. It was surrounded by thick forest. They headed north until they came across a drug store that seemed in relatively good condition. They approached it carefully, Daryl's crossbow out, and Beth's knife in hand. Each went to either side of the door. Daryl kicked it open and stood outside the entrance, ready to face any immediate walkers. There were none. He looked at Beth.   
"Ok," he said, signaling her. She started to bang loudly at a glass window, and Daryl joined her, for several minutes. Two walkers came out. Daryl was about to take care of them, but Beth gently placed her hand over his arm.   
"I got it," she said, looking at him somberly with big blue eyes. Daryl stood back and watched, but did not lower his crossbow, just in case. Beth grabbed the first one by the shoulder and plunged her knife into its skull, moving backwards as its knees buckled and it fell in her direction. As the second one was approaching her, she kicked it square in the torso, causing it to fall carelessly onto its back. Before it could get up, her foot had smashed its head, completely flattening it, and she continued to stomp on it a few more times, just to make sure it was dead.   
Daryl looked at her, a little taken aback.   
"Damn, girl," he said. "When didja learn to kill em like that?" She furrowed her brow, looking down at the two dead walkers.  
"I..I didn't. Guess I just seen it enough.." she said distantly as she proceeded into the building. He followed with a smirk on his lips.  
Although the sound had attracted walkers out of the building, they could never know for sure if there were any more inside, so they carefully searched each isle of the place, ready to kill at any moment. When they found nothing, the two relaxed, and met at the cash registers. They searched for any food they could possibly find, which ended up being six snickers bars and a can of broth. They looked for other supplies as well. Any meds they could scavenge would come in handy, so Daryl looked in the back to find a few bottles of pills whose names he could not pronounce. Beth searched for any bandages or clean clothing they could use, all of which was in the isle seven. She found several t-shirts that would fit her, but only a few that could fit Daryl. Of this assortment was a Family Guy shirt, Peter Griffin's idiotic grin stretching across the front. She laughed thinking of his reaction if she tried to make him wear it. She moved down the aisle and things got a little less funny.   
Daryl was walking out of the personal care section with a few bottles of shampoo and rubbing alcohol when he saw Beth standing there, staring. He approached her only to see what it was she was looking at. A baby onesie. He looked down, beginning to feel a hint of social anxiety. He reached out an arm and gently let his fingertips touch her shoulder.   
"Hey," he said, "don' be like that. It wasn't yer fault."  
She moved her head to face him, presenting an expression he couldn't really read. She almost looked a little angry.   
"Don't look at me like that," she said very seriously, and softly pushed his arm away from her, walking off. Judith was dead, so she didn't exist anymore. There was no point dwelling on something that didn't exist. It was stupid. But what was even more stupid was that pathetic look Daryl gave her as he caught her looking at the article of clothing. How could he have known she was thinking of baby Judith? She could have been analyzing the clothing, seeing what use it could have for them in terms of bandaging. That damn Dixon couldn't read her at all.   
She made her way back to the cash register and waited for him there, trying to busy herself by organizing all of the things on the counter. Daryl stood next to her but did not say a thing, he decided not to push it. He cleared his throat.   
"I guess we kin stay here tanight, if that's alright with you," he said.   
"Yeah," she responded. She looked down. "I think I saw some blankets down isle five. We can use those, if ya want," she called back while walking away, into the semi-darkness, "And we best secure that door before night comes." 

Beth looked at her watch. It was well into one in the morning and she had yet to fall asleep. The natural sounds from outside kept startling her. The crickets chirping. A tree shifting slightly. At one point she thought she heard a car passing by, but it could have been her imagination. A few feet away from her was Daryl, who appeared to be fast asleep. Perhaps it was the chocolate of the candy bars, or the amount of stress Beth was experiencing, but she could not relax for the life of her. Every noise made her body freeze, her neck and shoulders becoming tense, her toes curling. It had been such a long week, why couldn't she just let her body rest like she wanted to? She looked at Daryl, or at least his general direction, as she couldn't see a damn thing in the darkness. She began to feel jealous of him. Sometimes, he made it look so easy, being strong. The way he could pick himself up, grab his crossbow and get dinner. The way he didn't really need anyone, or need to talk to anyone. And here he was on this cold, hard floor, cuddling up with nothing, and probably having the best sleep of his life. He took situations and made the best of them. It wasn't obvious, but Daryl was very flexible in that way. He was strong. And no matter how hard she tried, Beth was weak. She would fight for strength, she decided. Fight to be tough like him, like. . . she thought about how long the list could go on, so many names she wanted to remember. But none of those people were real anymore, making them invalid. The only person who existed, really, was Daryl.   
Yes, she would fight to be tough, no more weakness after her little episode in the woods. That was far too dramatic. That was her one big moment to lose her shit, to rely on someone else. And her last. But as she heard Daryl softly breathing, it became more and more tempting to be weak again. She lied down uncomfortably on her spot on the floor, debating, until finally she gave in. She quietly crawled over to Daryl and lied down, facing him. Not terribly close, she wasn't that stupid, but close enough for their knees, which were bent towards each other as they laid on their sides, to touch. Just being slightly close to him, Beth could feel his warmth. Within minutes, she was falling asleep to the thoughts, "Alright, I'll allow myself two weak moments in my life: what happened in the woods...and this." 

Daryl woke up with Beth next to him, her nose a good four inches away from his. Her arm lay in front of her loosely, her fingers threatening to touch his abdomen. He stared intently at her. She had been weird lately, to say the least. He debated waking her up, asking her why she moved so close to him, or just what was up in general, but he decided not to embark upon it. Best let it be, at least for now. He carefully got up, so as not to wake her. He checked her watch, it read 5:30 AM. Daryl ran his hand through his hair, debating what he would spend his time doing. They would not need to hit the road for another hour and a half.   
Daryl looked outside one of the windows. It was almost completely light out. He looked at what they had collected in terms of food. He really didn't feel like eating a candy bar for breakfast, so he grabbed his crossbow and headed out. It was a beautiful morning out, just the perfect temperature as Daryl started to walk into the nearby woods. The energy of the place seemed calm, peaceful, even. There was not a walker in sight. This, however, had yet to fool Daryl Dixon into letting his guard down. He was well aware of the fact that he was not the only predator out here.   
He quietly made his way deeper into the woods, until he found a good spot to sit down and wait. About ten minutes later, he was watching a squirrel climb a nearby tree. He focused his eyes on it, ready to shoot, until he saw something human shaped walk behind the tree it was on. His first thought was a walker, but when he adjusted his eyes to get a closer look, it was gone. Daryl shook his head. Damn, he thought, I must be real hungry.   
About an hour after he had left, Daryl returned with several squirrels in his arms. He was silently greeted by Beth in the store. She had woken up about a half hour ago, and managed to pack everything up. They would need to get on the road soon. Sure, it was safe here but only for so long. That was the same with everything in this world. They quickly ate their breakfast and left.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry I haven't posted since last week, I've been busy trying to get my summer assignments out of the way, but anyways, hope you like this chapter! I'm not sure when I will be posting chapter three (my "l" key and period button don't work, I copy and paste the letter "l" every time, so it is making writing a little frustrating right now) but most of it is indeed finished   
> Feel free to leave comments, I love hearing from you guys!

Chapter 2

 

They spent the next few days on the road, going from building to building, finding as much supplies as they could, which often wasn't much. They each kept to themselves for the most part, but Beth especially. It was like she felt if she didn't act a certain way, she wouldn't be good enough. Like she had something to prove. Whenever Daryl looked at her, she squirmed uncomfortably. Whenever he asked her a question, she responded defensively. Whenever he tried to help her, she glared at him questioningly, as if he had no right to do so, as if it was a judgment of her capability. It made Daryl feel almost incompetent. 

With this said, the girl had become eager. Eager to kill every damn walker in Georgia. Eager to find the next place to live. Whatever was most efficient, whatever was best for survival, that seemed to be what she wanted to do. Daryl thought he would have liked this. Liked someone silently emotionless, someone who moved at a quick pace in the same no bullshit manor he had cultivated. But Beth, man, something was going on with her, and Daryl didn't like it. The way she acted made him feel uneasy, as if at any minute she would have a meltdown. Daryl lived with a time bomb once, his brother, and he didn't really feel like doing it again. But reluctantly, he let her be. He let Beth be cold and numb, like she wanted to. Wasn't any of his damn business anyways. 

As the days went on, Daryl started thinking maybe Beth really didn't care anymore, about anything. She pushed him along, to the next house, to the end of the next mile. She refused to stop for anything but the necessities: food, water, sleep, etc. She wouldn't even have a conversation with him, not that he really knew how to start one. The road was making her rough, like sand paper. Maybe there wasn't a soft spot on her left to be seen, Daryl thought. That was, until two nights later. 

They had found a small industrial building just eight miles north of where they had stayed in the convenience store. It seemed relatively safe there, it was in good condition and far from any nearby towns. As they approached the side door to it, Beth looked up to him, expectantly. It had become routine to let Beth take the first stab at any walkers in a building they were clearing. Daryl honestly found it kind of immature that they were even dividing who gets to kill what at all, but he kept this thought to himself as he opened the door quietly. Nothing came out. Beth walked in first, Daryl following her. 

The building had two floors, with a staircase in the center of the bottom one. Splitting the first floor in two was several cardboard boxes, stacked to make a sort of wall. Daryl made a mental note to search those boxes for supplies later as they each took a side of the building. 

Beth slowly walked down her side of the floor, searching every inch of the immediate space in front of her. Nothing. At the end of the room was a door, which she approached quietly. She gulped. She put her hand on the door knob, ready to search the newly discovered room. As soon as she opened the door, a swarm of about six walkers came crashing out. Beth took a few steps away to gain some distance from them. She clutched her knife. She sunk her weapon into the skull of the one nearest to her, and pushed it away. Another one was approaching, which she kicked to the floor and stomped on its head. Two others were behind her now, and a third coming closer. It was time to call for Daryl, a voice in her head told her. But no. She needed to do this on her own. One day, Daryl won't be there How was she supposed to survive this world if she couldn't handle one walker at a time? She quickly turned around and jabbed her knife into both the walker's heads, and then did the same for the third. Now there was one walker left. It was a slower, weaker one, and was still lingering at the door. As Beth approached it, it stretched out its arms towards her, taking a few steps in her direction. Beth kicked it on the ground and stood on its rib cage, which was beginning to cave in. Beth did not know why, but she started hitting at its pelvis with her feet instead of its head, letting all of her body weight go to tearing apart its hips. She heard the sound of brittle bones breaking, the sound of blood coming from the walker. She heard it moaning as it attempted to bite her ankle. Still she continued, not holding back until eventually its torso and legs were two separate things. She faced the now defenseless walker and started stomping on its abdomen. She was so engrossed in destroying this thing, stomping every part of it until it was reduced to nothing, that she didn't even notice Daryl come up to it and stick his knife in its skull. He walked away without looking back. 

"What the hell was that?" she asked, walking up to him. "I coulda taken care of that on my own."  
"Uh huh, sure," he responded indifferently. Could she really not see how stupid she was being? 

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You ain't that stupid, Beth. You should know by now that ain't the way ta kill em." He tried so hard to keep his cool while saying this. Tried so hard to be understanding. 

Beth looked down, a combination of irritation and shame swimming in her mind. She looked at the dead walker, torn to pieces. Maybe she should have gone for the head first, but it doesn't mean she didn't know how to. She bit her lip.

"Look, I know how to kill walkers. I was just... I dunno, blowin off steam," she said defensively as Daryl walked up the stairs. He looked down at her seriously. 

"I know you do. But like I said, that just ain't the way ta kill em." And he walked off. 

Beth could see where he was coming from, but somehow it didn't make sense for her. These things were monsters, with no trace of who they once were. And chances are, everyone who loved them was dead, too. There wasn't a soul left in the world who was concerned about their bodies being treated with respect. 

Upstairs, she could hear Daryl searching the second floor. She went up behind him, not sure what to do with what he said. 

That night, they got lucky. Upstairs, there were a few cots and even some canned food. It could have been someone's set up, but not for a long time. Dust covered the floor in a cloud-like manor. They were grateful for the break from the outside world. After a silent dinner, Daryl hit the lights and they both tucked into possibly the most comfortable beds they had encountered in a long, long time. Within minutes, Daryl had passed out. He did not know how long he was asleep for, but at some point, he was awoken in the middle of the night by screams. Loud ones. Close ones. He shot up quickly. Moonlight had flooded into the room, and as he adjusted his eyes, he saw Beth sitting up in her bed, making a ruckus. Her eyes were shut tightly, her arms flailing in every direction. Daryl quickly ran over to her to try and calm her down, not sure what her response would be. He tried to put his arms around her. She began to hit him, but not enough to actually hurt. Her eyes were still closed. He pulled her into him and she slowly began to calm down, her movement subsiding. She sobbed into his shoulder, her body slack against his.

"'sok," he said. "I gotcha. Yer safe." She did not hug him back, only cradled her arms in front of her as she leaned into him. He squeezed her tightly. Several minutes went by before Beth said anything. 

"They just won't go away.." she whispered into his chest. "I close my eyes and I see 'em." Hearing herself say this aloud queued another tear to roll down her cheek. A wet, fat one. 

"Who do you see?" he asked. She started hyperventilating. "Hmm? Who do you see?" Apparently, inquiring this was the wrong move, because as he asked her, Beth began to cry harder. Her body started doing a spasm-like movement in relationship to her distress, and he rubbed her back, telling her it was okay over and over again. Eventually, she calmed down. She gently pulled away from him to look at his face, but all she managed was to look at her hands. Daryl peered down at them as well. 

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Daryl said, examining her bloody hands in his. 

"Wha-What do you think that is?" she asked in a panicked voice. 

"My best guess is ya dug yer fingernails into yer palms when you were sleepin," he said, frowning slightly.

"Sleepin.." Beth laughed a little at this and sarcastically smiled to herself. "I barely been sleepin since..." She trailed off. Daryl looked at her with concern. 

"Really?" his eyebrows went up. Was this the time to ask her what the fuck was going on? No, Daryl decided. This was not.

"Uh uh," she said, looking down. There was a moment of silence before Beth hesitantly added, "What if I get sick from not sleepin?" her voice rose in anxiety. "Then what use will I have?" Daryl put an arm on her shoulder. 

"That ain't gonna happen," he said. "We'll figure somethin' out. Maybe we can find somethin' that'll help." He squeezed her upper arm in confirmation. He let his fingers run down to her one of her bloody hands. He got up to go back to his cot. 

"Wait," Beth said. "Is..is it alright if I maybe sleep a little closer to you tonight?" she asked. Her cot was on the other side of the room, her idea not his. He looked down. 

"Git up," he said, and she listened. He picked up her cot and pulled it across the floor until it was touching his. They lied down next to each other, facing inward. Beth could hear him breathing. It put her at ease. She moved her arm forward and let her pinkie finger touch his elbow. He felt it and reached for her hand, holding it gently. "It'll be ok," he said. He sure hoped it would, at least. 

 

Daryl woke up fairly early in the morning. Beth was across from him, curled up very close but not touching. This is becoming a bit of a habit, he thought to himself. He slowly got up and grabbed his crossbow. He examined Beth's watch, which read 4:30 AM. Daryl stood there, considering if maybe it might be worth it to try and go back to sleep, but deciding there was no use at this point, he was already properly awake. He looked down at Beth, who was fast asleep just a few feet away from him. If what she had confessed the previous night was true, then this was her first real sleep in a while. She'd be out for a few more hours, Daryl concluded as he proceeded downstairs. The first thing he wanted to do was search through some of those damn boxes. He took one off of the stack and set it on the ground. He searched through it, finding nothing put broken glass and Styrofoam. He took another one down, and the same thing. A third. A fourth. He got up and kicked the box to the opposite side of the room in frustration. Almost simultaneously, he heard a sound in one of the attached rooms in the back. This made him nervous. He had cleared the place just yesterday, and the building was secured. A walker couldn't get in. He held up his crossbow, pointing towards the door of the room where the sound originated. He slowly, quietly approached it, his ears straining to hear any other sounds made. There were none. He put his hand on the door knob. There was something, someone in there, he could feel it. It was as if the door intensified with energy, the promise that someone was standing there, waiting. He turned the doorknob, opening it and peering. A familiar silhouette stood before him, with their back facing away. They wore a checkered button down shirt. They were tall. It felt as though someone had shoved a knife through Daryl's throat as he stared at the person standing in front of him. The air around him became hot and alarming. He swallowed, and took a step back. Daryl shut his eyes tightly and whispered to himself, "You're. Not. Real." He trembled, something he never thought he would do, as he gripped his crossbow tightly. When he opened his eyes, the person was gone. Daryl closed his eyes again and shut the door, stepping back. His eyes remained shut until he was sure he was a good distance away from the door. He opened his eyes and ran outside. 

It was just beginning to turn light out, and the mosquitoes were abuzz as Daryl stormed out of the building, breathing heavily. He began to curse profusely in his head, cursing the world, cursing Beth, cursing himself... cursing everything. His nerves cutting at his patience, he had the sudden urge to vomit. He gagged a few times, managing to keep it down. Everything around him became fuzzy as Daryl continued to walk into the woods. There was only one thing that could ever calm him down, and that was distraction. 

 

Daryl headed silently to an abandoned CVS pharmacy that they had passed the day before on their search for a place to stay the night. They would have used it, but decided not to because all of the doors had been busted open, giving them no security. Before heading out of the woods, he scanned the area for any nearby walkers, however none could be seen. He walked up to the building and started to bang the side of the building to lure any of them out, but nothing came. Daryl picked up his crossbow and walked inside. The place had been almost completely cleaned out, except for some unnecessary things such as nail polish or cellphone cases. But Daryl had hoped that the one thing that wasn't in high demand during the turn was sleep medication. 

He cleared the area, finding only one walker, which he promptly killed. He looked through the isles in hopes of maybe encountering some cough syrup or Zquil. The first two isles gave him nothing. The third, he got lucky, finding a variety of sleeping pills and some ibuprofen, which he put in his bag. He searched the rest of the building, finding a package of raisins and a container of protein powder. That shit was pretty damn useful, kept you full at least. He went in the back of the building, behind the counter, to find any other medications that might be of use, although he wasn't exactly sure how to decipher between useful and not. Daryl began to hear footsteps inside the building. He couldn't tell if they were human or otherwise, and pulled out his knife, figuring it would be easier for one walker rather than loading his crossbow. He peered his head around the corner but saw nothing. A hand from behind slapped itself on his shoulder. Daryl jumped. 

"Well, baby brother," a familiar voice said slowly with leisure, "ain't you the gentleman?" Daryl whipped himself around to face Merle, who was looking down upon him, a smug smile having found its way on his face. Daryl didn't know what to do, seeing his dead brother in front of him. He was stunned at the sight of him, and struggled to stand up straight. Merle moved closer. "What?" he threw his arms up, "Ya didn't miss me?" he chuckled to himself. "Come on now, just cause you playin' Bonnie and Clyde with miss Lil' Bo Peep here don't mean you can't give your old brother a hug, huh?" Daryl backed away and Merle followed him. Daryl's hands were shaking as he looked at his brother. He had on an unbuttoned, checkered shirt with a white tank underneath. His facial hair was scruffy, his eyes sunken in, just like the day he died. His left hand was rough, callused, his right one just a stump. He neglected to wear his usual metal covering. Merle noticed Daryl staring at where his hand should be. 

"You don't think I pull it off like this? Cause I was gonna get all dolled up for you, baby boy, but I figured you'd find me pretty all the same," he said, with a flicker of bitterness in his expression. Daryl's throat closed up as he thought of what he should do next. Should he run? Should he kill him? He remembered the last time he had had a hallucination of his brother, it turned out to be a walker. With this in mind, Daryl raised his arm, ready to sink his knife into his brother's skull but Merle grabbed his wrist and twisted it behind him, pushing him to the ground. He got on top of him and punched him once, waiting for him to say something. Daryl looked into his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose. 

"You're not real," he whispered slowly. 

"Yes I am," Merle yelled, shaking the entire store.  
"No you're not!" Daryl shouted, a tear streaming down his face. "You're not real. You haven't been for a long, long time." He began screaming. This was when a walker came into the store, and the two stared at each other in anticipation, wondering who was going to take care of it. 

"Well," said Merle, getting up with casual haste, "if I ain't real, I can't get that there walker. Looks like it's up to you, boy." He helped him up, and handed Daryl his knife, which had fallen to the ground. "Go on," he said, motioning with his arm towards the walker. "Unless you too much of a pussy ass ta handle it." He started laughing hard at this, as if it were some sort of inside joke they had. Daryl came up to the walker and killed it with his knife. Another one wandered into the store. And another. Daryl ran back for his bag and his crossbow, taking out both walkers with his knife as he did. 

"Come on, you can do it!" his brother yelled to him with sarcastic enthusiasm. Several more started piling in. An overwhelming amount. Daryl used the back of his crossbow to hit one closest to him. He ran into the isle in front of him and pushed over a shelf, crushing several of them. Daryl looked back at Merle, who stood in the back, laughing, unaffected by the chaos. He turned around and a walker was on him, trying to bite at his neck. He struggled, trying to push it off of himself, but it was a strong on, and mindlessly clutched onto him. Daryl couldn't get a hold of his knife or crossbow. He closed his eyes, bracing himself for what was next. That was when he heard a gunshot, and the walker on top of him stopped fighting and lay there limp upon him. He looked up to see Beth's eyes on him with an unreadable expression. She shot at another walker. 

"Get your shit," she yelled towards him, " and let's get the hell outa here." Daryl grabbed his crossbow and they ran out of the building, only to find a large crowd of walkers just outside. The crowd was big, but not dense, making it easier for them to weave in between them and make an escape. Beth shot at two more that were close to her; Daryl managed to shoot one with his crossbow and recollect the arrow. He quickly looked in through a window of the building to see the spot where Merle had last been standing, only to find he was gone. 

They jogged away from the herd. Going into the woods at this point almost guaranteed death, what with uneven ground, no promise of buildings. They proceeded on the road, with walkers following them, making sure not to run too fast, or they would exhaust too quickly. It took them about an hour before they were a safe distance away from the crowd. They found a car, and Daryl hot-wired it, and they drove in silence for a few minutes, until Daryl couldn't resist to ask. 

"Where the hell'd you get that gun?" he asked, a little more aggressively than intended. 

"Daddy gave it to me two days before the prison fell. Said he didn't need it anymore." Beth flinched at this when she had realized she had broken her unspoken rule of not mentioning anyone dead. She cursed herself under her breath. Silence hung there for a moment. 

"Howdja find me?" he asked, more as a way to keep conversation going. 

"When I woke up and-and you weren't there, I'd figured you'd gone out huntin' or somethin. But you didn't come back so quick like you normally do. Thought maybe you'd called it quits with me."  
"I wouldn't do that." He kept his eyes on the road. 

"I followed your track," she responded immediately, ignoring his sincerity, looking in his direction. "Found the CVS. Saw the herd. Some of em were comin to me, but they heard ya yellin' in there an' came yer way." Daryl tensed up at this. He had almost forgotten what had happened in the store. Almost. And now he knew it was only a matter of time before she asked. "Why were you-"

"Well here's your damn sleepin' pills. Next time a thank you would be nice," he said roughly, throwing the bag in her direction. 

She muttered a timid "thanks". Daryl made an inaudible noise. She looked down at her lap, feeling defeated. And that was when the conversation ended.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok, first of all, soooo sorry I haven't posted in a while, but I think this chapter will be great.  
> I don't know when I am going to post again, I have a rough idea of how I want the fic to end, but in all honesty, and I'm not exaggerating, I am incredibly devastated over Beth's death. I fear writing about her will make me even sadder, but hopefully I'll get over it soon because I REALLY like writing this fic :)
> 
> In this chapter, I have dabbled in symbolism, so keep your eye open for it! One thing I'd like to just inform you guys of so you can better understand one part of the story: Violets and sunflowers are symbols of worthlessness in Victorian Era poetry. 
> 
> I hope you guys like this chapter, feel free to comment!  
> Also, the next few chapters WILL get things going a bit more ;)

Chapter 3

Daryl woke up on the sofa, his arm hanging off of it so that his hand touched the dirty carpet. A hot breeze came in through the open sliding glass door, heat rising in his skin. He got up very fast, causing himself to feel dizzy. The year was 1985. The first day of summer. Daryl was eleven.   
The night before, he had stayed up late, wandering around town. He had hoped to be able light firecrackers with his brother, Merle, and his friends, but he had told him to get lost, all in so many words. So instead, he walked, finding himself in small places no one knew about. On top of buildings to be specific, watching everyone's heads bob up and down. People holding hands. Smoking cigarettes. Big hair. Small heads. Fat bodies. Short legs. With some variation.   
Daryl had hoped to see something dramatic, maybe a cop chase someone, some gamblers deviously walk into a secret room. Nothing of the sort. The town was almost as boring at night as it was during the day. Still he watched. He liked it up on those roofs. It made him feel safe, hidden. Gave him the same sort of feeling as when he found himself deep within the woods. No one could touch him.   
Daryl had jumped from one rooftop to another, finding some loot as he went. A laminated picture of a violet and a sunflower, which he eagerly pocketed. A shoelace, which he tied around his wrist. An angel key chain charm, which he tied to the shoe lace.   
The wings of the charm scratched his palm as he found himself laying back down on the musty couch, but only for a second. He sprung up quickly, still in the same clothes as the day before. His teeth felt unbrushed, and he smiled to himself at the thought of it. Today was gonna be a good day, he decided.   
* * *   
The two survivors drove in silence for half of the day, a tenseness in the air feeling as though it was pulling their skin tighter around their faces. Beth felt she should thank him for all the trouble he went through just to help her sleep. But it felt as though there was a plastic lining at the base of her throat, disabling her from speech. She had hoped that if she discretely hummed or cleared her throat a few times it would make it easier to speak, warming her throat up to the few sentences she felt obligated to express. But still the words wouldn't budge.  
Meanwhile, Daryl clenched onto the steering wheel, his flanges wrapped so tightly around the metal and plastic that his fingernails reached his palms. He felt as though he had just swallowed a watermelon sized pill, or perhaps given birth to a baby through his chest-he wasn't quite sure. Nervous energy bit at the back of his throat and infiltrated his bloodstream, causing his legs to tap shakily on the carpeted car floor, as if translating his anxiety into the motion would placate his sentiment. But it accomplished no such thing. And he couldn't handle feeling like this right now. It was like vomiting in school or at a shopping mall with nowhere to go to wash off the public humiliation. It was like sitting through strep throat.  
Seeing that there was a drug store to his left, Daryl pulled over. What he needed would be here, almost definitely. Beth sat up in her seat, her words of confusion breaking through her vocal barrier.  
“Why are we pullin’ over?” She asked.  
“Gotta get some shit,” he said apathetically.  
“But we ain’t low on supplies right n-”  
“Listen, you cin come on in with me or you cin sit ur little ass in this car. What do I give a shit what you think for?” he snapped, cutting her off. She noticed he exaggerated his southern accent when he said this. She just looked at him, nostrils flared in annoyance, brow slightly furrowed. He looked at her for a moment, panting, relishing the feeling of letting his mouth go before his head, no matter how self-destructive it could be. Getting angry could taste like sweet poison for him when he was vulnerable, setting a dimly lit room that was flattering to his complexion. He got out of the car and slammed the door behind him.  
* * *   
A young Daryl walked into the bathroom and turned on the light. Before looking at his reflection, he glanced behind him at the floral print of the wallpaper in the bathroom. There were large, pink roses with little leafs all around them. A weird blackness surrounded the base of the toilet and in between the tiles of the shower.   
He let his eyes shift focus to his face. Just a few days ago, his brother had stood behind him and slapped his shoulders gently.   
"Well, lookey here, baby brother. You's lookin like a man. Pretty soon, you gon be growin' a mustache er somthin'," he said, smiling to himself. He was seventeen at the time, and Daryl's absolute best friend. He was good looking; a fit, young, tall man with wavy blonde hair. He always wore an expression that made it look like he was having fun. Daryl turned around to him and grinned, wanting to hear his role model say it again.  
"Really?" he said gleefully, in a voice that had yet to change.   
"Sure thing, baby boy," he said, and gave him a short stiff hug. "And you gon be one fine young man."  
The eleven year old grinned, thinking of the moment he had shared with his brother. Convinced he was practically a man now, he held up his arms and attempted to flex his muscles. Small bumps rose from his shoulder and forearm, and Daryl made a mean face in the mirror, feeling like a sumo wrestler. He stuck out his tongue and wrinkled his brow, puffing up his chest. Suddenly, he heard heavy steps just down the hall from the bathroom. Out of instinct, he turned off the lights and hid behind the door, holding his breath. The footsteps approached where he was standing and Daryl felt his nose tingle irritatingly in anticipation. He heard the labored breathing, the hard work of lungs under an iron rib cage and layers and layers of flesh and alcohol that were burying it. The footsteps scraped to just outside the bathroom and Daryl’s shoulder twitched. He heard a hand go into a pocket, perhaps to check for money or keys, and then the steps dragged on outside of the house. Daryl slowly got out of his hiding spot and turned on the light again, a tense relief seeping into his system. His dad was out of the house now. Daryl wet his hand and slicked back his hair, looking at himself one last time. Yup, he thought, today is gonna be damn good.   
* * *  
Beth took a moment to look at what had just happened. For the first time since the prison fell, he had snapped at her. This whole time, he had been so level headed and patient-in his own shaky kind of way. She bit her lip. She hated the thought, but it was true all the same. It kind of gave her a thrill to wind him up, push his buttons. The expression, "Don't poke a sleeping bear," didn't even begin to cover the situation that Beth was bringing to herself. It was more like, "Don't stick your hand into a pot of boiling water."   
Reluctantly, she got up and out of the car, following closely behind him. She figured she could at least make sure he didn't get himself killed in there. From the sight of him hunched over, striding briskly over to the front closed door of the building, Beth took that it would be best to give the older man some space. . His scraggly hair hung in his face and around his neck to his jaw. He held his crossbow slackly in one hand, as the other pulled open the door, not even bothering to check the windows for the undead content waiting inside.   
He swung the door open and about seven walkers came stumbling out, a disorganized dispersion. Fortunately, Daryl's crossbow had already been loaded, so he was able to shoot one in the head. He lazily swooped down and picked the arrow back up. Two of the walkers got closer to him, not giving him enough time to reload his crossbow. He pulled out his knife and let it go through each of their heads swiftly. As their bodies fell heavily to the ground on top of each other, Daryl stood on them, digging his heal into the top one's shoulder. Blood spurted onto him as the arm of it fell loosely off of the body. It was somehow satisfying, seeing the walker fall apart like that. The Governor got Merle. Merle got Daryl's peace of mind. Daryl got a walkers arm. Nothing more. It was almost funny how after all the shit he put up with in his life; his father, his brother's drug addiction, an apocalypse, this was what he got.  
Meanwhile, three approached Beth. She took her time, kicking each one to the ground and stomping on their head with her boots.   
A female walker approached Daryl, stringy, almost translucent, hair falling on its skinny shoulders. It was the final walker to be dealt with. Beth began wiping the guts off of her shoes as he grabbed the walker by its neck and threw it against the side of the building. It shrieked petulantly as its head was slammed against the graffiti-covered cement. He got a good grip on his knife and shoved it between its eyes. The body lay motionless in his grip, and Daryl stabbed it again and again, the smell of rotting blood intensifying with each push, until the walker's face was no longer recognizable. Beth stood there, not sure of what to do, other than call him a hypocrite; he was shaming her for doing the exact same thing yesterday.  
He let the body fall to the ground and stepped away, breathing deeply and quickly as the knife, lubricated with blood, slipped out of his hand. He allowed himself a look at Beth. Her face gave nothing away, but her eyes were big.   
"'That ain't the way to kill 'em,'" she said, imitating his voice. Her words were sharp, angular. It made Daryl feel as though someone large was sitting on his brain, inside his skull. He wanted to yell at her in that moment, dish out all the creative swear words he had learned growing up, make her blush. But what she said angered him to exhaustion, regardless of if she had a point or not, and made his mind feel as though it was drying up.   
"Fuck you," was all he managed to say. The phrase didn't even seem to touch her as she walked into the building. She called behind him,   
"You wish." He sucked air into his mouth as he heard this. Beth was flattering herself, pulling at whatever she could to get a rise out of him. And it was working. With her back turned, he stomped on the stomach of the walker before him in annoyance, allowing a pool of blood to spurt out of it and onto his pants. Fuck, he thought. And now I'm gonna smell like walker all week.   
* * *  
Daryl stepped out of his house onto the front yard, nearly tripping over a hose that had never once been used. After spending about twenty minutes in the bathroom making faces, Daryl had gone into his father's room and fished five dollars out of his wallet. He had never in his life stolen money from anyone, but something about how he felt that day convinced him he would not get caught. He would be able to complete this mission, this adventure. There was just one more thing that he needed in order to get to the drug store on Emerson, and that was a bike. Daryl did not own a bike, his father never bothered trying to save up more than twenty dollars at a time. But he knew for sure that his older neighbor, Aunt Starla, had one. Daryl was never sure why he had to call her "Aunt" but somehow it had become a part of his familiar dialect in regards to her. She showed no special appreciation for the boy, and absolutely could not stand Merle. In fact, just last month, Daryl had overheard Merle getting chewed out by her for exactly the same thing he was about to attempt. But this Aunt Starla, she had a damn good bike stuck in her garage with no one to ride it. Her daughter, Doranne, used to own it, before she died of some sort of breathing problems. She wouldn't miss it, Daryl decided. At least not for a couple of hours. After making sure she wasn't on her porch peeling lemons like she usually is, he quietly made his way onto her property. He walked into her open garage, grabbing the dark blue bike which was in between a canoe and a chainsaw. The thing was perfect. He quickly mounted it and rolled down her driveway, with thoughts of what the day had to offer and how he was going to gloat to his brother later that night.   
* * *  
They stepped into the dark drug store and searched it thoroughly, finding no other walkers. They regrouped at the front and each took a side of the building to search.   
After about twenty minutes of inattentive scanning, Daryl shifted his weight so as to look over the shelves. He saw Beth looking intently at something in her hand on the other side, perhaps checking an expiration date. Now was the time. Daryl walked over to the liquor section, grabbing the first bottle of whiskey he saw. He was about to turn back, but decided maybe he should grab two, just to be safe. He didn't know how drunk he would need to get, nor how frequent. He walked back to the front, grabbing a tattered box of granola bars and some spam as he went, to make it look like the point of this was food, and not intoxicants. He went behind the cash register and grabbed several boxes of cigarettes. It had been a while since he last got a hold of a smoke, most places had been whipped clean. This one was almost completely untouched, save chewing tobacco, which Daryl found disgusting anyways. He waited at the counter for Beth to finish her in-depth search.   
* * *   
Daryl left the bike on the sidewalk outside of the convenience store. He didn't know better than to lock it up at the time. He walked in and immediately saw what he had been craving for about six weeks now. Chocolate cigarettes. And not those cheap, crappy ones with their waxy taste and anonymous shape. The nice ones with the pink paper around them in the fancy packaging. Daryl was only ever able to stare at them, never having the money to pay for them or the nerve to ask for them. He grabbed two boxes and a coke and ran to the cash register, staring at the man behind it. That was Mr. Leefolt, he and his daddy played poker every once in a while, but they didn't know each other well beyond the decks of cards and amicable sharing of a beer. He was a nice man, always had a kind word to lend to Daryl, or a tip about using knives. He had a wrinkly face and white hair. His eyes were shaded by wild eyebrows that pointed outward, towards his ears. Something about him always gave Daryl the feeling of condensed Styrofoam. The man smiled at the boy.   
"First day of summer, eh?"  
"Uh huh."  
"Now, you don't say 'uh huh' to an old man like me. Ya say 'Yessir', alright?" he informed gently. Daryl looked up at him, contemplating his response.   
"Yessir," he said.  
"Gocherself a treat, huh?" He asked, as Daryl handed him the money and candy.  
"Yessir."   
"How'd you get here?" He pulled open the cash register, reaching for a single.   
"Walked."  
"Really?"  
"Yessir." The 'yessir's were flying out of his mouth now.   
"How'd you get five whole dollars?"  
"Allowance."  
"Thought your daddy didn't give allowance."  
"He don't," Daryl replied without thinking. He cringed inside. By now, Mr. Leefolt had already bagged everything, and before he could say another word, Daryl dashed outside with his candy. Fortunately, the bicycle was still there, and he walked it to the end of the side walk and then got on. He rode to the edge of the woods and sat at the base of a tree, greedily unwrapping his candy. The first two chocolates, he shoved into his mouth impatiently, relishing the way they melted on his tongue, allowing himself to become adjusted to this class of luxury. The third, he was able to slow down a little, pretending to smoke it, imitating Merle, his father, just about anyone he knew. He looked up at the tree as he took gulp of his soda, taking in its soft, fern like leaves. The breeze was cooling, unlike when he had woken up. Daryl closed his eyes, listening to the chatter of birds around him, taking in the essence of his favorite place to be. It always smelled like clean out here, like the rain had saturated the scent of bark and rotting animals into a blanket of white canvass. That was what he pictured when he inhaled his surroundings. Clear, empty stillness. Like an ominously vacant gallery. Here, things were simple.  
* * *  
Daryl fell down carelessly on the dusty floor of the two-story home. Beth and him had come across it a few hours after the car they were using ran out of gas. It wasn't perfect, and certainly not the most secure, but they had been walking for a while and it was getting dark. It would do. They were fortunate to find that it had no walkers in it and a few large jugs of water. Not that Daryl would be drinking any liquid of that sort tonight. He sat on the floor, leaning on the side of the bed. He unzipped his bag to reveal the well-hidden booze he had looted from the drugstore. Without even bothering to close the door, he opened the bottle. Daryl's mind had been tense the entire day, ever since he saw his dead brother in that convenience store. Honestly, it hurt to see him there. It pushed him back to different days. To the days when the Governor was just a distant thought, a potential problem. Nothing like what he had become to them now. It made him nostalgic for all the things that were no longer there in this world. Lil' Ass Kicker, for starters. The thought of her always made the back of his throat go bitter. She was a symbol to the group. A symbol of hope, that children could stay here. That there still was innocence. Even Daryl, whose childhood had been anything but, began to believe that maybe this world was survivable in the long term. Other people came into his head. Rick. Michonne. Glenn. Everyone he loved and cared about, and voices rattled in his brain, going out of their neat formation Daryl had carefully placed them in. That's where the alcohol came in. It diluted his saturated mind and diffused the pressure he felt on his shoulders. He could not pay homage to everyone at once, could not address them; it was too overwhelming, even when he was drunk, but still he felt a strong saudade for everyone at the prison. Even the people who gave him shit.   
He felt the alcohol seep into his mind as he gulped it down furiously, the liquid burning and warming as it went. Suddenly, his muscles relaxed. For the first time in days, he had realized. It was like a soft woman sitting him down on a chair after a terrible say, kissing him on the head, diffusing the contents within it.  
He went back into the backpack to produce a pack of cigarettes, which he opened shakily. He got a hold of a match and lit the smoke, holding it between his lips. He felt the chemicals satisfyingly pollute his body as he closed his eyes and let his head fall onto the bed, the back of his skull resting on the musty comforter. He exhaled and felt the heat of the smoke leave his mouth. Sure, it wasn't dope, but it was damn near close. He took another drag of his cigarette and let his hand fall to the floor, the white paper covered tobacco resting between his index and middle finger. The feeling of avoiding falling off a cliff came over him.   
If I can manage, he thought to himself, If I can manage to never let that happen again, I can keep it together. If I never see his face again, it'll be ok. He heard footsteps coming into the room he had claimed as his. He did not open his eyes. The footsteps stopped next to him and he heard someone sit down. They sighed. They put a hand on his face. At first he thought it was Beth, and he almost liked the idea of her sitting next to him, but the manner in which the movement was executed and the skin of the hand itself were rough, unlike Beth's. He shot open his eyes to once again see his brother, Merle.   
"Suppose it's after five.." he said, gesturing to the whiskey in his brother's hand. Daryl stared at him for a moment, his teeth clenched and his tongue pressing at the roof of his mouth. He looked away quickly, at his knees in front of him, refusing to look at Merle again. There was no point whispering "You're not real” again. Merle would never quit, dead or alive. He patted him on the back.   
"Still ain't happy to see me, huh?" he asked, and his eyes dropped. Daryl said nothing in return. Merle twitched his mouth to the side in contemplation of what to say next, eyes vacant in the pursuit of words. "Leme ask you a question," he said finally, his eyebrows jumping up, reanimating his face. Daryl scoffed, and bit his raw lip.   
"mkay," he said to his chin.   
"Why you doin' this?" Merle asked, as if the question explained all his confusion.   
"Why you stayin' here, wit her? I mean," his voice began to jump up and down with a touch of laughter, "it ain't like she's suckin' yer-"  
"Because I got to, Merle," Daryl said, aggravated. He looked directly at him now.  
"What you gotta care for? Man, you didn' even care 'nuff to stay with me that time we got outa the governor's hair. Baby brother, you don't care bout nothin'. Not me. Not her."   
"That what you think?" Daryl asked softly. The words had hit him in the center of his rib cage. The inside of his ears stung buzzingly and the flesh in his throat burned. He knew what was coming.   
"That's what I know," he said, moving his face closer to his brother's. Daryl breathed firmly through his nose, fighting what was being drawn out from him.   
"I went runnin' after you, when ya-when ya took Michonne ta 'im. That's..that's when I saw you.." he trailed off as his voice began to break, giving him away. He wanted to double over, curl up, and purge. But he stayed uncomfortably stiff. "Look, I'm doin' this cause I got to. Ya brought yer death onto yourself and you ended up fuckin' evrythin' up." He said the last part with self-doubting conviction. Merle laughed at him.   
"Baby boy, you's fucked up just as much as me...If. Not. More." The last three words were dragged to Daryl's consciousness with a validity he couldn't stomach. Merle added "And you's gonna fuck her up nice, too. Weather you wanna or not." He closed his eyes, sending thick tears to rush down his face. He took another gulp of alcohol before responding.   
* * *  
At around 9:30 at night, Daryl decided it would be best to come home. After eating his candy and drinking is soda, Daryl had spent the day wandering in the woods, attempting to track squirrels. Reluctantly, he got back up on the stolen bike and went up the path to his house. He considered throwing away the wrappers from his candy, but decided to keep them, they were a souvenir of today, the fruit of his rebellious efforts. After all, that pink paper around those cigarettes was just too damn pretty to toss.   
Within twenty minutes, Daryl had reached his home. He managed to silently return the bike back into Aunt Starla's garage. Daryl's father's car wasn't parked in their own driveway, but someone else's was. He assumed it was one of Merle's buddies and shrugged it off, walking inside.   
In the living room sat a tentative Mr. Leefolt, examining an overfilled ashtray. When the screen door squeaked shut, he looked up to see the young boy, a startled expression on his face.   
"There ya are, boy," he said, getting up. "Listen, I-I had found it strange that you had all that money with ya, and how ya walked to the store earlier today. Saw ya git on that bike. Suppose I got a bit concerned, so I called yer daddy, son," he said, seeming unsure if he wanted his tone to be apologetic or strict. Daryl swallowed his sugary saliva in regret. All of the events of today were finally catching up to him. He mustered a small word.   
"..where?" he wanted the sentence to continue, to ask where his father was, but that was all that managed to escape his lips. Mr. Leefolt seemed to understand.   
"Oh, he's out lookin' for you right now. Don't worry, he'll be back real soon," he said reassuringly. Daryl just looked at his hands. He considered running back outside. If he left now, maybe he could get the bike and head for the woods again, lose himself in the trees. But at that moment, he heard a car pull in. Without a word to the old man, he walked to his room, tucking the plastic bag with the wrappers under his mattress. He would return to them as a memory once this moment passed. He returned to see a figure down the hall from him, in the living room. It charged at him.   
"There ya are, ya little fuck," he growled, pulling him by the hair. Daryl squirmed under his grasp, but could not get free. He felt himself being pulled onto the sofa. The same one he had woken up on earlier that day, feeling so free. No lights were on in the living room, their only light source was a dim lamp whose rays bled into the area from the kitchen. Daryl sunk into the rotting foam and upholstery, hoping to reduce to rotting cushion. His father loomed over him.   
"What the hell you think you're doin, goin' into mah room, takin from mah wallet? Huh?" he yelled at him, rattling a spoon that was on top of the TV. Daryl said nothing, so he grabbed at his shirt, yanking him up. "Huh?" he asked again, spit getting on Daryl's face. "'N then, you go an make it worse by gettin' on yer Aunt Starla's property, takin her bike from her? Yer such a disgusting disappointment to me," he spat. The smell of whiskey encompassed Daryl's face, an intrusive cloud forming as he yelled. That was all he had to say. Now came the real form of expression. He slapped Daryl. The sound made Mr. Leefolt jump, but he looked down, thinking that was all that would happen. A simple slap, and Daryl would be sent to his room. Will Dixon would get up and sigh in that "I didn't want to but I had to" way and shake Mr. Leefolt's hand. Thank him for keeping an eye out for his son. He was very wrong. Daryl's father slapped him again, and then pulled him to his feet and pushed him to the ground. Mr. Leefolt got up, put a hand on the man's shoulder from behind.   
"Now, here, William, I don't think that'll be necessary," he said timidly. The man slowly turned around to face him, much closer than the older one would have liked.   
"Ya ain't gonna tell me how ta raise my son, ya hear? And ya ain't gonna look at him again, ya ain't gonna talk to him neither." He nudged him backwards. Mr. Leefolt backed away, headed for the door, but Daryl's father came after him. The young boy heard someone getting punched again and again, the sound of something cracking, someone falling. He kept his nose to the floorboards, desperately, inhaling the dust. He knew that running away would only prolong what was to come, and probably make it worse. He heard someone being kicked, and a groan. He fought the stinging in his eyes. No tears, he thought. Not this time.   
Daryl's father picked up the old man and shoved him outside.   
"And don't ever come back, ya hear?" Daryl didn't know why, but in that moment, he shot up. He had agreed with himself that he wouldn't do this. Wouldn't run. It would only make it worse. What was to come was inevitable at this point. But he suddenly got the acidic feeling that he didn't want to go through it at all. What if he ran? What if he ran so fast his drunk daddy never saw it coming? Maybe he would never come home again. The thought got him on his feet, a terrified excitement pushing his shins forward while his father was outside, distracted. He walked into the kitchen carefully, keeping in mind not to make any fast movements while his father could still potentially see him from outside. He slowly inched around the wall and immediately made a run for it, pushing through the flimsy screen door. The backyard was uninvitingly covered with ivy, and there was the sound of leaves thrashing as he tore through them. He needed to make sure his father didn't see him as he went around the house. He could still hear him yelling in the front, along with the moans of pain from Mr. Leefolt. When his dad was to come inside to find him, Daryl would know it. There would be a loud shriek of frustration, like an alarm going off.  
He quickly made his way up the side of the house and, seeing that his father's back was facing him, he began to run stupidly in the middle of the street, leaving Mr. Leefolt behind, listening to the events taking place in his front yard. He heard the sound of a car blasting music pull up into his driveway, the door slamming. Merle stepped out. Unconcerned with father beating someone up, he cocked his head and squinted his eyes to see the figure of Daryl running off into the poorly lit street. Not thinking, he called out to him.   
"Baby brother!" He yelled. Instinctively, Daryl stopped. "What you runnin' away for?" He asked vacantly. He was clearly under the influence of something. Will Dixon turned to see the boy standing like an ugly truth on the pavement.   
"I'm gonna kill that kid," he said, forgetting Mr. Leefolt. He began to jog toward Daryl, signaling him to keep sprinting. Merle caught up to his dad.   
"I got him, Pa. Just go home, I think you should sit down. I'll go and get im fer you," he insisted.   
"Don't give a shit what you think. I’m gettin’ that boy and Imona kick his teeth in!" he yelled. Merle knew what he had to do. He began running faster than his father, which was easy, seeing that he was very drunk and very out of shape. He wheezed day and night and his belly bulged like a bowl of jello when he walked.   
Merle quickly caught up to Daryl, but made no effort to grab at him.   
"Alrigh' baby brother, you gon get outa this, I promise. Where ya plannin' on runnin to?" he asked. Through labored breaths, Daryl told him he wanted to go to the woods. "Alrighty, here we gonna make a left here," he said, skidding to a halt and pulling open a metal fence so that Daryl could get in. He pushed him forward, but Daryl waited for him to follow.   
"What about you?" he asked earnestly.   
"You go on. I gotta deal wit Pa now. But you keep runnin. Don't come home till tomorrow afternoon, when he’ll be gone," he instructed. Daryl hesitated to leave his brother, his best friend. But then they heard their father, making Daryl feel as though a finger had gone up his spine.   
"You fucks better be beggin' me fer forgiveness when I find you," they heard their father call out in the distance. He wasn't too far behind.   
"Go," his brother pushed him to move. Reluctantly, he ran into the overgrown baseball field that was on the other side of the fence, disappearing from sight. He ran for what felt like hours, pains in his legs and stitches in his sides. A sponge he could soak his fears into. His throat had become hot and dry when he stopped to take a breath, realizing he was at the base of the woods, where he had pretended to smoke the cigarettes mere hours ago. He entered the forest without a moment’s hesitation.   
Daryl spent that night in the woods. He had managed to find a mossy area at the base of a tree deep within the forest. He trusted Merle, but would never risk hiding somewhere where he could be easily discovered by his father. He was sure the old man would never venture this far into the untamed, unknown. He liked to stay where he had things under control, where the ground was flat bellow him. So Daryl pushed a pile of leaves under his head and struggled to fall into a steady sleep.   
* * *  
Beth was in the other room calculating how much they could eat per day without running out of food too fast when she heard it. Heard a glass bottle hit the decaying wall. She shot up, knife in hand, and ran over to Daryl's room, expecting to see him fighting off a walker with a shard of glass. When she got to the doorway, she saw him standing up and looking at the side of the bed. Across the room was an amber liquid spilled to the floor with broken bottle all around it. Daryl was hunched over, shoulders back, and fists clenched. His chest was rising and falling dramatically as she heard him yell.   
"You had no idea, Merle. I know you seen them, but you ain't seen the half of it." Beth felt her eyebrows go to the sides of her eyes in confusion at the situation. She stepped backward, as if to leave, but stepped on a piece of glass, making a crunching sound, alerting Daryl of her presence. He turned around and looked at her. On any other day, at any other moment, Daryl would have hidden himself from her, clawed at his insides for any excuse as to what he was doing yelling at nothing. At any other time, he would have held up the illusion that he was fine. All the time. Fine. Managing. Tolerating. But not today. He stared at her, laying the cards out on the table for her to choose. In that moment, he was ok with her seeing him like this, maybe because in this moment, he wanted to talk about it, he wanted to admit he wasn't fine. He was so tired of fighting like he used to, fighting the direction things and people are pushed into. So he stood there, not saying a word, until he finally sat down on the area where he had previously found solace in drinking. He bent his knees in front of him and placed his hands on his ankles. Beth stayed put. He looked up at her to see she was looking away, shifting uncomfortably at the nakedness of Daryl's actions. Things could get muddled between them, until they didn't know what was real.   
Daryl pressed his back into the side of the bed as he thought of how the scene looked, how familiar it was; yet from different eyes. Beth pursed her lips together and hastily put a strand of hair behind her ear, debating what to do. A silence loomed over them, and she didn't know what it was. Not knowing was a problem for her. It made her feel like she wasn't in control. She had learned again and again what happens when she isn't controlling the situation. When her knife or her daddy's gun won't protect her from potential pain. When she has to face something real. Without even thinking of what she was doing, she walked over to where Daryl was and sat next to him, making sure to leave six inches of space between the two of them. She reached out a hand and gently wrapped it around his upper wrist, feeling his arm hairs against her scabbing palm. She swallowed. She did not know what to say.   
At her touch, Daryl looked at Beth, the corners of his lips pressed into his cheeks, an appreciative gesture. Beth felt awkward and uncomfortable with her hand on the older man. She felt covered in stiffness. She thought back to times at the prison when Maggie would come to her with problems with Glenn or Carl would talk to her about his own worries. She always knew what to do. She was never afraid to touch them. And she always made them feel better.   
"I wish I was better at this," Beth emitted finally, letting her grip on his arm tighten slightly.   
"'Sok," he huffed.   
"I used to be."  
"I know."  
* * *  
It was early morning, possibly two or three AM, when Daryl made his way back home. He knew he should have returned later in the day, but he was hungry and dehydrated and in need of a clean shirt. Sleep was unsuccessful in the woods; every noise made him flinch and he became paranoid of ticks. He stepped up the splintering porch and quietly opened the screen door, hoping naively that his father would have already gone off to work or the bar downtown or wherever he goes during the day. The first thing he heard was the soft sound of the TV going off in the living room. A bottle hitting the floor a little too forcefully. He was about to turn around, run back into the woods. Clean shirt be damned. But the drinking man got up with an aggressive face, and turned his head as if anticipating Daryl's presence, his eyes on the boy. Daryl was stuck now. He couldn't get out of this one.   
"Come here, boy," his dad said rockily, pushing open the screen door and pulling him inside. "Didn' know when yer balls dropped yeh lost yer brain, son," he said in a fatherly tone, rolling up his sleeves. Daryl backed away to the other side of the room, bumping into a grimy lamp along the way. He searched the room for his brother, but he was nowhere to be seen. Daryl swallowed. There was no way out of this one. Will Dixon walked up to him and grasped his chin in his hand, shoving his face upward. Daryl did not let his eyes look up at him. His face burned like the sun, a hot, unshaven mess that bubbled on his cheeks with alcohol.   
"Look at me, boy," his dad shook. "Look," he said, squeezing his jaw, "At. Me." Daryl inched his eyes up towards him, settling on a gaze over his nose. "Don't you ever do that again." He let go of him, as if to throw his face to the floor. Daryl just stood there, waiting. His father backed up slightly, his hand massaging his forehead, contemplating. He walked off a few feet, and for a moment, Daryl thought that was going to be it for his punishment.   
Just as this crossed his mind, his father swung around and threw his fist in his face. Daryl fell over onto the floor, his skin like hot, prickly ice.   
"Git up, boy," he said.

When it was light out, Daryl awoke quietly, feeling as though his face had thrown up. Crystallized pain covered his cheeks and eyelids, which had been hit repeatedly. His left hip ached from where his dad had kicked him when he had fallen on the ground.   
Daryl shut his eyes tight, clenching his fists. In his small hands was the paper from yesterday, which he had clung to like it was the embodiment of safety. The house was silent and light was pooling onto his bed.   
He got up and blinked a few times, as pus began to drip from the corner of his eye. He walked into the living room. It was exactly like it was the day before. And the day before that and the day before that. Exactly the same. And it would look like this tomorrow. This would be his age, this would be his life. And the sight of it infuriated him.   
A beam of light shone through a hole in the black garbage bag covering a broken window. It illuminated something on the floor. Daryl scratched his head, still emotionally and physically tired from yesterday. His forehead hurt slightly and he rubbed it, feeling a square indentation on his skin. That was when he remembered one of the things that had happened last night.   
While his father was beating him, as he fell to the ground, the laminated drawing of the violet and sunflower fell out of his back pocket. His father stopped for a moment to inspect the item. He smirked.   
"Well ain't you pretty, boy," he said, holding the small card between his rough thumb and pointer finger. Daryl swallowed, eyes wide. There stood silence between the two of them as they panted.   
"Why you carryin' this around for?"  
"Dunno," he said, and he heard his voice sound high and scared as he talked.   
In the darkness, his father took the card and pushed it into Daryl's forehead harshly. The corners of the plastic pinched his skin and Daryl shut his eyes as he felt the label latch onto him. The label. The man got up and spit on Daryl, kicking him. He walked away, into the kitchen, most likely for a beer. The square label on his forehead felt like a magnet, attracting and sucking everything out of Daryl, like it would kill him. Yet his father seemed unaffected by the internal agony.   
Now Daryl stood in the midst of a quiet morning, staring at what was under that beam of light. He approached it slowly. It was the angel he had found just two days before. It must have slipped off of his wrist sometime last night. It lay on the floor, the two wings broken off, leaving a lone, exposed blonde woman staring blankly up. He picked the small object up and held it in his hands. It was funny. When he found it on the roof, he just picked it up and pocketed it without a thought. But now, when he really had the chance to look at her, he realized something. She was beautiful.   
At that moment, Daryl heard footsteps from behind him. He turned around swiftly to see his brother, who was in worse shape than he was. His lip had split open and blood had stained his chin. He looked older, his hair appeared flat as if it had been thinning. His eyes, which had a rim of yellow around the irises, raw from a fight, had sunken in. His right hand was in his pocket, hidden from existence. He trudged a few steps closer to his brother. His eyes fell to the broken key chain on the floor, the wings a few inches away from Daryl's feet. They were shiny like leather and dirty like the floor. A look of humble understanding spread across the adolescent's face.   
"Daryl," he said, "thought I tol' ya ta come at noon. Pa woulda lef' by then." Daryl looked up when he heard his actual name out of his brother's mouth. He usually called him "lil' man" or "baby brother". He only called him "Daryl" when things were serious.   
"I'm sorry," Daryl said suddenly. "Didn' wanna stay in the woods no more. I came back las' night, and.." he trailed off. Merle looked down, and then made his way to the ground, sitting in front of the couch, adjusting himself to lean on the edge of it. He patted the floor next to him, urging him to sit. Daryl clutched the small broken objects in his hand and went to his brother.   
"Whatcha got there?" Merle asked, peering over to Daryl's hands which were in his lap.   
"Nothin'," Daryl said, moving his hands under his legs to conceal what he was clutching.   
"Nah, nah, leme see," he said, gently taking Daryl's hand out from under and opening to see. He saw the broken figure and looked down for a moment, pondering.   
"Here," he said, gently pressing the figure of the girl into Daryl's palm before taking the two wings into his own. "You keep that."   
"But..." Daryl stammered.   
"Nah, you keep it. I'll take the wings," he insisted before getting up. Something bitter was in Merle's throat, but in a stifling way. The obviousness hit him like a white, cold wall and he wanted to cry. But he did not. He looked at his younger brother, who held the object in his hand in a confused manor. He looked at his dirty shirt, stained with blood. There was an uneasiness in the way Daryl sat, presumably from his sore ribs. Merle kept looking until Daryl noticed his gaze and looked at him back. Merle's mouth tightened into a small smile as he looked down at the tiny pieces of plastic in his hand.   
"A lotta people are gonna love you, Daryl," he said as he walked away, down the dark hall. Daryl just barely heard what he said, putting it in his mind before looking back into his palms.


End file.
